


Umbra

by Vizkopa



Category: One Piece
Genre: Angst, Blind!Mihawk, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5081624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vizkopa/pseuds/Vizkopa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Umbra</b> [ŭm′brə]</p><p>   <i>noun</i></p><p>1. the fully shaded inner region of a shadow cast by an opaque object, especially the area on the earth or moon experiencing the total phase of an eclipse.</p><p>2. shadow or darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Umbra

_Mihawk could feel the sun warm on his face. There was nothing but blue skies and blue seas ahead, and golden sand below. He breathed deeply of the salt air. He had never been one to appreciate the beauty of it all. He regretted not doing so now that the only place he could experience it was in his dreams._

_And dreams were always such fleeting things._

_All too soon, the sky grew dark and a great shadow fell over him like a cloud passing across the sun. When he looked up, a towering man stood above him, the top of his head reaching the sky and casting Mihawk’s world into darkness. He could not see a face, but he did not need to. Mihawk knew it would be a face that stayed with him, even after all other memories faded away._

_A booming voice echoed in his ears. “An eye for an eye, Hawk Eyes!”_

_The Goliath lashed out with one great hand, dark blade gripped tightly in his fist, and Mihawk felt the searing pain across his eyelids – vivid and real – and the warm wetness flowing down his cheeks, flooding his throat. Whether it was blood or tears, he could not be sure._

He woke to the sound of his own voice in his ears. The room was dark, as if the giant had trapped Mihawk in one enormous fist and was squeezing, crushing. He could feel his ribcage contract as his lungs struggled for air, his limbs heavy and clumsy as they fought their way free of the sheets. When finally the paralysis lifted, he scrabbled for the cross at his neck and clutched it tightly, and for a few, heart pounding moments he struggled to see through the gloom. The pain in his eyes still lingered, but it soon ebbed away along with the fragments of the dream, leaving only him and his humiliation of being woken by his own cry of fear.

It had been that same every day for months now. Every morning, he woke to darkness. And every morning he spent his first waking moments trying to comprehend why, until his lagging mind would catch up with his body and he remembered, and he silently cursed the man that took his sight from him. He would hear the birds sing the arrival of dawn and smell the morning dew and feel the warmth of the sunlight on his skin, but never again would the sun rise for him.

At night, he could not sleep, his other senses heightened to the point every chirp of a cricket, every gust of wind about the tower in which he slept, would jolt him from unconsciousness and he would spend the rest of the night listening to the humandrils crash around in the forest undergrowth miles away. And when he finally slept in the early hours of the morning, the same dream would plague him. The giant with the dark blade who left his world in umbra.

When his breathing had returned to its normal, steady rhythm, he disentangled himself from the sheets and climbed from the bed. A chill hit him as his sweat-drenched body met the cold morning air and, with fumbling fingers, he reached for his coat and wrapped it tight around his shoulders. It was probably crumpled and creased from the countless nights it had spent on the floor when did not have the patience to search the dark for a place to hang it. But he could not bring himself to care. No one was there to see him anyway.

When he was dressed, he padded barefoot to the kitchen, feeling his way along the wall – a route he had memorised in the last few weeks and the only one he could follow confidently. He shuddered to think what would happen if he strayed from the path now. His own home, now alien to him, could very well become his tomb.

One day – it felt so long ago now – he had wandered for hours among the maze of corridors, until finally, admitting defeat, he had called on Perona to lead him out. He kept his head hung low the entire time, following only the sound of her voice. She at least had the dignity to not laugh at him, but he did not need to be able to see the pity in her eyes for him to know it was there. The weight of it was suffocating.

He sent her away after that, remaining stoic through all her tantrums as she packed her belongings. He knew it was cruel to condemn her to homelessness once again, but he simply could not bear to have her feel sorry for him. He was too proud for that. She gave in in the end, and Mihawk could clearly hear the sorrow disguised by the anger in her last words to him.

“Fine, I guess you’re just going to die the way you lived! _Alone!_ ”

She was right. And he would rather be dead. He had contemplated it, on the many lonely nights since she had gone. But he could never bring himself to do it. What held him back, he never knew. It was not like Dracule Mihawk to shy away from death.

“Dracule Mihawk, this has to stop.”

The sudden voice from behind him caused him to stub his toe on the leg of the dining table as he jumped violently. Time was, he would have known someone was there before they had even stepped off their boat. He swore. He recognised that voice. God damn it, why was he here now of all times? Still cursing under his breath, he straightened and turned to greet his uninvited guest.

“Good to see you too, Shanks. Or it would be, you know, if I could see you.”

“I’m glad you at least gained a sense of humour out of all this,” Shanks deadpanned. “But how long are you going to stay cooped up in here moping all day? You look like shit, and you smell even worse. And you keep pushing away everyone who’s trying to help you. You’re the greatest swordsman in the world! Are you really going to let a little handicap like this stop you?”

Mihawk glared vaguely in the direction Shanks’ voice was emanating from. It was hard to tell when the echoes of the stones bombarded him from all directions. “No one can ‘help’ me. In case you haven’t noticed, I am useless without my sight. The great Hawk Eyes, reduced to NOTHING.” 

His voice rose with the last word and he cringed as the stone halls echoed them back to him. It felt as if they were mocking him. Just like everyone else would when they saw his once brilliant gold irises scarred and faded to milky white.

He sighed. “Imagine what they would say if they saw me like this. Do you really think the government would have any use for a blind Warlord? They would sooner put me out of my misery.”

“Then show them you’re _not_ useless.” Shanks’ voice seemed closer now. “When I lost my arm… I thought it was the end too. I woke everyday with phantom pain so bad I thought I would die. Yet here I stand today, stronger than ever.”

Mihawk remained silent.

“We were once rivals, until you decided I was no longer worth your time. So what say you? Is a one-armed man a match for you now, Hawk Eyes?”

“You don’t understand, Shanks. He stripped me of everything. He took my eyes, my title, even my sword. He should have killed me when he had the chance. It would have been less cruel.” He turned away. “I’m naked in the dark, living a life in his shadow and I can’t seem to cast it off.”

Mihawk felt a warm hand on his shoulder. “Then you’ll take it all back. Starting with Yoru.”

“That won’t restore my sight,” Mihawk hissed.

“True. But maybe it will help you realise you don’t need it.” The hand left his shoulder and Mihawk heard the ring of steel as it slid from a scabbard. “Here. It’s not Yoru, but it should serve you well until you’re reunited.”

Mihawk held the sword in his hand, testing its weight. It felt wrong somehow, unfamiliar and cold. Yoru was always warm and welcoming, as if it had a raw, beating heart of its own, one that beat in time to his. This new sword was a stranger to him, but still he gripped it like a lifeline because _damn_ it felt good to have steel against his palm once again.

“Shanks… Thank you.”

Shanks’ voice softened and Mihawk thought he heard the hint of relief in his voice. 

“Anything for you, old friend.”


End file.
